


A Riot in the Rangers

by avid_author_activist



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: Gen, Humor, Satire, i wrote this back in august and now it's may but at least im done, this is me trying to be funny i hope you all appreciate it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24374524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avid_author_activist/pseuds/avid_author_activist
Summary: This work includes the following: an incident involving a duck pond, fire arrows, an organization named YEET, and spoiled milk. Continue reading at your own risk.
Relationships: Crowley Meratyn & Halt O'Carrick, Gilan & Halt O'Carrick, Gilan & Will Treaty, Halt O'Carrick & Will Treaty
Comments: 47
Kudos: 80





	1. Crowley Starts A Cult

**Author's Note:**

> Timeframe: Will takes his fourth-year assessments at the Gathering, so this occurs right before Erak’s Ransom. 
> 
> This is an AU in which everyone is slightly out of character (this is a comedic fanfic, after all) and where people’s ages have been shifted around to fit them into the narrative. (Rangers from TEY are present, even though they should be retired right now, and Nick, Liam, and Stuart have forward-shifted maybe three years because they were originally first-years in KC)
> 
> This is based off a Tumblr post that I wrote but was greatly expanded on by @RedRoseArrow 
> 
> Thanks as always to @elizathehumancarrot for being the best beta ever!

It all started innocently enough on Sixday evening, a day before the end of the annual Ranger Gathering. 

The lights of fifty campfires, arrayed neatly next to their respective tents, dotted the Gathering Ground. Will could see them all from his campsite, where he sat mending a tear in his cloak. Orange and red light dazzled his eyes, making it difficult to focus on his task, but he was in a good mood. The stars were coming out, and the breeze brought with it the smell of fresh rain and growing things. Overall, he thought, it wasn’t a bad place to be. Not by a long shot. 

Halt, seated on the other side of their fire, was reviewing Will’s assessment results from earlier that day. “All told, you did well,” he said, and Will felt a burst of pride in his chest. His mentor’s praise was rarely given, but when it was, it meant more to him than almost anything in the world. 

“Perfect scores in short-range archery, mapmaking… minor deduction in unseen movement on your snake crawl, but we can’t be perfect at everything.” Halt clucked his tongue.

“Even you?” Will teased.

“I’m the exception,” Halt informed him.

“Oh, sure you are.” One moment, there was nothing but dusk and shifting shadows. The next, Crowley seemed to detach from the canvas side of a tent, stepping into the firelight less than five paces away. 

Will jumped, fumbling his needlework, and wondered why the horses hadn’t given warnings. Then he checked the wind and realized that it was blowing  _ away _ from them, in the direction of Crowley’s command tent a row to the left.

Unfortunately for him, Crowley noticed his startled expression. “Oho!” he said. “Halt, it appears that I’ve gotten the better of your latest apprentice.”

“Would be a shame indeed if our Corps Commandant couldn’t sneak up on a fourth-year trainee,” Halt said, not looking up, and Crowley looked slightly crestfallen. “But, Will,” Halt continued. “Crowley  _ has  _ been showing up every evening to mooch off my coffee stash. You should have noticed by now.” 

Crowley reached for the coffeepot. “Well, now,” he said, pouring himself a cup. “It isn’t  _ mooching,  _ per se. More like offering your hospitality to an old comrade, wouldn’t you agree?”

“No,” Halt said seriously. “It’s definitely mooching. Pass the honey, would you?”

Crowley looked aghast. “You can’t be serious. Why do you insist on ruining perfectly good cups of coffee?” 

Halt snorted, reaching for the honey himself, but Crowley stood up and held it above his head. “What are you going to do?” he asked. “Jump?” 

Will wouldn’t put it past his mentor to tackle Crowley and send him sprawling, but he kept that opinion to himself. 

There was a sudden shout of surprise and a crow of laughter. A tall figure— _ Gilan _ , he thought—crept up behind the Commandant and snatched the honeypot from his hands. Crowley spun around with a splutter of outrage, and Will choked back a laugh at the look on his face. 

Halt accepted the honey from the tall Ranger. “My former apprentice seems to agree with me,” he said serenely, adding a generous spoonful to his mug.

“That’s right, Crowley.” Gilan took a seat by the campfire. “Coffee with honey is far superior to coffee without it.” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. He turned around and yelled at the campsite next to theirs: “Harrison,  _ you _ agree with me, right? Coffee is better black?” 

The figures silhouetted against the neighboring campfire stirred. “Of course,” one said.

His companion shook his head. “Absolutely not,” he protested, and Will recognized the voice of Leander, a senior Ranger from Dacton Fief. “Black coffee is just awful.” 

Will was doing his best to keep his mouth shut, waiting to see where this exchange would go. It wasn’t the best idea for him, a lowly apprentice, to alienate the Corps Commandant, he decided. 

“How dare you blaspheme like that?” The outrage in Crowley’s voice was fake, but it was nearly impossible to tell. “I ought to have you tried in a court of law!” His raised voice attracted attention from the tents around them. A couple apprentices sidled a little closer, hoping to eavesdrop on an argument between the senior Rangers. 

Halt got to his feet and took a step towards Crowley. Will shrank a little further into the shadows in case someone tried to use him as backup. “Meratyn,” Halt said, the edge of a Hibernian accent appearing in his voice. “There is no reason—and no law, might I add—that would persuade me to drink liquified bitterness when there is honey on hand.”

“Also, honey is quick energy. Good for waking up. Adds a little sugar to the caffeine boost,” Gilan supplied helpfully.

Crowley turned red as his hair, rounding on Halt again. “I would have thought you, of all people, would like your coffee black.”

“And why might that be?” Halt’s tone was smooth.  _ Dangerously _ smooth, Will thought, edging even farther to the left. 

“Because then it would be the same color as your general outlook on life.” Crowley’s expression worked furiously as he struggled to keep a straight face.

The look in Halt’s eyes made Will very glad that everyone had stowed their weapons after dinner. He scooted a little farther from the confrontation, perching on the very end of the log on which he was sitting. “Think what you like about me, but I guess it is true what they say: a redhead has no soul,” Halt said quietly.

Crowley gaped. Halt had delivered a killing blow.

“But,” he continued, “if he did, it would be as dark as the coffee you claim to enjoy.”

Gilan stifled a sound between a snort and a chuckle. Will clapped a hand to his mouth, leaning back on the log. Halt didn’t even  _ need _ a weapon to murder Crowley where he stood. 

Crowley glowered. “Absolutely hilarious. I see your dry wit has aged the opposite direction as fine wine, Halt.” His gaze swept over the three Rangers, all of whom returned the look as innocently as possible. 

He shook his head, disappointed. “I’m headed off to bed.” With that, Crowley swept out of the campsite, his cloak hiding him to the night before he’d gone ten paces. 

Halt reached for the coffee pot again with a contented sigh. “All the more for me, then.” He and Gilan clinked their mugs together. Will, whose legs were starting to ache from their current position, attempted to scoot back onto the log without drawing attention to himself. 

Without looking up, Halt said, “Will, stop lurking in the shadows and trying to be unobtrusive. It’s very obvious, you know.” Abashed, Will abandoned his attempts to be discreet, moving closer to the fire. He heard Tug snort from where he was munching oats from a bucket and couldn’t help but wonder if his horse had been eavesdropping. 

The old Ranger scrutinized him. “It’s been a long day, and you have more assessments tomorrow. I’d get to bed if I were you.”

“Yes, Will, go to bed and let the grown-ups talk,” Gilan mimicked, taking a long draft of coffee.

Halt turned a baleful eye on him. “Sarcasm isn’t the lowest form of wit, Gilan. It isn’t wit at all.” 

“Oh, that wasn’t meant to be witty,” Gilan said cheerfully. “That was meant to annoy you.”

Will ducked into his tent before he could witness his mentor commit another homicide.

He emerged from his bedroll shortly after dawn to find Halt cursing over the cookfire. 

“What’s happening?” he yawned. “Did you manage to burn water?”

“Some idiot snuck into my kit during the night and took our honey,” the older Ranger seethed. “What am I supposed to do now, drink my coffee without it?” His words faded to an indistinct muttering, through which his irritation was still clearly visible.

“Are you sure the honey wasn’t misplaced?”

“Of course I am,” Halt said impatiently. “I don’t  _ misplace _ things.” 

Will wisely kept his mouth shut. Halt adamantly refused to have coffee without honey or sugar; they had run out of sugar before leaving for the Gathering, and now the honeypot was missing. He knew from experience that Halt without his morning coffee was as bad-tempered as a charging boar. Thinking back on it, Will would prefer the boar any day. 

He sighed and unwrapped a chunk of stale bread from last night’s dinner. There might not be any coffee, but at least he had food.  _ I’ve been spending too much time around Horace,  _ Will thought.

“That’s it,” Halt said suddenly, leaping to his feet and setting down the coffeepot. “I’m going after him. It shouldn’t take long, so don’t stray too far, Will.” He strode away, cloak flapping gently in the morning breeze. “And remember to feed that horse of yours!” he called behind him.

Will continued munching his bread, considering the morning’s strange turn of events. He thought of the argument from the night before. So maybe the thief had been Crowley, or Harrison, because what? Because they had wanted to prove a point? Would the senior Rangers of the Corps really behave that way? 

He scowled and rubbed his eyes, not liking the feeling of being left in the dark. Halt had known right away, he thought. If only he’d explained his reasoning before rushing off.

Abelard raised his head and made a sound of greeting, followed closely by Tug. “Hullo, back already,” Will said, half to himself. 

His mentor appeared between the rows of tents, a scowl etched on his face. As he neared, Will saw that he was leading someone roughly by the collar. “Look what the cat dragged in,” Halt said, marching up to Will. 

Will craned his neck for a better look at Halt’s captive, but his face was shaded by the cowl of his cloak. “Of course, that would make you the cat,” he remarked. 

Halt made a disparaging noise, indicating he couldn’t be bothered to care either way. His captive, seeing his distraction, ducked and kicked out at Halt’s legs. Halt evaded the clumsy attempt and tightened his grip on the man’s collar. As he did so, Will caught a glimpse of a wooden leg underneath the other man’s cloak. He frowned—he wasn’t sure if he knew of any Rangers in active service that had lost a leg.

“Really,” Halt said to his captive. “Did you think you could get way with that, Berrigan? Another Ranger, perhaps, but not you with that leg of yours. It leaves prints so distinct a child could track them. You must be getting rusty in your old age.” 

_ Berrigan.  _ The name struck a chord in Will’s mind. He frowned, wracking his brains, wondering where he’d seen the other Ranger before. Then it hit him: Berrigan had assessed his mapmaking skills yesterday. He must not have seen the peg leg, because it would’ve been under the table. 

“You’re one to talk about old age, Halt. Beginning to get some gray hairs, are we? Not as young as you used to be?” Berrigan shrugged off his cowl, looked as nonchalant as a man held by the neck of his jerkin could be. He was around fifty years old, with more gray than brown in his hair, and Will saw that the oakleaf he wore around his neck was gold. 

“Besides,” Berrigan continued. “Subtlety wasn’t exactly required. What’s important is that you won’t find the honey again: that’s no more sacreligious coffee for you.”

Halt sighed, exasperated. “This…” He gestured with his free hand toward Berrigan’s general vicinity, a look of extreme frustration on his face. “This whole  _ situation _ is beginning to border on religious fanaticism. Remember that cult we put down a couple months ago in the north, Will?” 

Berrigan tried to worm out of Halt’s grasp again, and without looking down, Halt tightened his grip and shook him by the collar. “What a rabble of misguided idiotic zealots. I seem to recall that they were fond of the same rhetoric.” He glared at Berrigan, whose face was impassive. “Who put you up to this, Crowley?”

“Can’t say, won’t say.” Berrigan crossed his arms, reminding Will of a petulant child.

Halt pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Have it your way, then. Does this Gathering Ground have a moat?” 


	2. Gilan Has a Crisis

Will gave him directions to the duck pond, feeling only slightly guilty. Berrigan had had it coming to him. 

While Halt was gone, he boiled more water for his own cup. Then, mug in hand, he headed to Gilan’s campsite on the western edge of the Gathering Ground to see if he had any honey.

When Will arrived, there was no sign of the tall Ranger, but Leander and Merron were sitting around the campfire looking pleased with themselves. “Where’s Gilan?” Will asked, pausing near the edge of the campsite.

“Oh, him.” Leander waved a hand dismissively. “He went to fetch firewood. He’ll be back soon.”

Blaze, grazing nearby, made eye contact with Will and tossed her head. Will followed the movement to the wooden tables in the Gathering Ground, where he’d done his fourth-year geography evaluation on Frigday. They were all overturned, strewn about as if they’d been thrown or knocked over. One was lying on its back, looking for all the world like a turtle that just couldn’t find its feet again. 

“What did you do?” he asked pointedly, turning back to the two Rangers. 

“Who said we did anything?” Leander asked, at the same time as Merron said, “Oh, this and that.”

Leander glared daggers at Merron, who assumed a look of innocence. “I meant  _ Gilan  _ went to go do this or that,” he clarified. “Not that  _ we  _ did anything to  _ him _ .” 

Will snorted, taking in more of the campsite. There was a definite disorder to it, he noticed, like there’d been a scuffle or sudden departure. The doubt in the back of his mind turned into a concrete suspicion. 

A sixth sense in him became aware of a change in the background. He turned in a circle, letting his conscious mind drift and his subconscious take the fore. There was the usual chittering of squirrels in the woods, the hum of people talking quietly at the next campsite, the fire crackling. Then Will realized what it had been: the breeze that had been blowing over the Gathering Ground had died. 

A sound, which he had previously associated with the wind, made itself apparent. It was an odd keening noise, undulating and warbling and sounding very depressing in general. Will raised an eyebrow at the two other Rangers, who both had blank expressions on their faces. In fact, they were  _ too  _ blank. Purposefully blank, as if they meant for him to notice. 

“What do you think that noise could be?” he asked pointedly, keeping his features neutral as well.

“What noise?” Leander adopted an angelic expression. “I don’t hear a noise.” 

“I could have sworn it was just the wind,” Merron said. His left eye twitched, ever so slightly, and he hastily looked away. The effort of keeping a straight face defeated Will, and he coughed, choking into his mug. 

“Well, if you little apprentices need to be reassured that there are no big bad monsters in the woods, I think you should go take a look,” Leander said innocently. “Halt wouldn’t like it very much if his apprentice got snatched away in the middle of the night, would he?” 

Unable to think of a better parting shot, Will turned and left, following the strange noise: he had a strong suspicion of what it could be. It led him to a large oak about twenty paces away, just out of sight and earshot of Leander and Merron. 

“Gil? That is you, right?” he asked, craning my head. “What’s going on up there?”

The annoying keening sound paused. “‘S that... Will?” The words were slurred, but the voice was definitely Gilan’s.

“Yes. What are you doing up there?” 

Will finally spotted Gilan, who was wrapped in his cloak, hanging by his legs from a branch four meters above the ground. Essentially, he looked like an overgrown, green-and-gray, well-camouflaged bat. 

“Leander and Merron’s coffee,” Gilan moaned. “Have you seen it?” Mystified, Will shook his head. Gilan plowed on. “What is it that Skandians say? By Gorlog’s nostrils! By his hair, claws, teeth, and breeches! They add milk to their coffee, Will. Milk!” He sounded perilously close to tears. 

Will hid the grin spreading across his face with some effort. “Oh. That’s—that’s awful, Gil.” His voice shook slightly from the strain of holding back laughter. 

“Isn’t it?” Gilan wailed. “It’s a blasphemy! An outrage! A—a—a–”

“A sacrilege?” Will supplied helpfully.

“Yes! A sacrilege to all we hold dear! So here I am, hanging upside down from an oak tree.” He gesticulated so violently Will was afraid for a second he would fall. “The very world has upended itself, the ground is the sky and the sky is the ground, and I STILL CANNOT FIND A FEASIBLE REASON TO ADD MILK TO MY COFFEE.” 

Will looked guiltily down at his mug. The opportunity was too good to waste, he thought. 

“Gilan,” he said, subconsciously tensing his legs, getting ready to run. “Would you like to see what’s in my cup?” 

Disarmed by the question, Gilan instinctively looked down—or up, for him—at Will’s mug. His face, already red from hanging upside down, turned a violent shade of purple. 

“Gods above!” he bellowed. “Will! Will, is that TEA?!” 

Will didn’t waste breath with an answer. He turned and ran for his life, shaking with silent laughter all the way back to the Gathering Ground. 

He returned to their campsite to find a rather pleased-looking Halt with splatters of mud on his breeches. Will guessed that Berrigan had had it worse.

“Found the honey?” he asked.

All traces of his mentor’s good humor vanished. “Nothing,” he said. “No leads. Berrigan wouldn’t say anything, even after I dunked him in the pond.”

“I think that does tend to make people uncooperative.” 

Halt scowled. “You’re an apprentice. You’re not—.”

“—ready to think, I know,” said Will, waving aside the age-old retort. “But have you found out anything else?” 

He nodded. “Oh, yes. The entire Corps is divided one way or another: honey or not. There’s already been a series of incidents like ours.”

“Leander and Merron take their coffee with milk,” Will interrupted. “And, of course, there’s me.” 

After his trial in Skandia, Will and Halt had discovered that tea kept him grounded. Calmer, somehow. It reminded Will of his childhood in the Ward, of the chamomile tea Jenny and George liked to brew in the tiny kitchen.

A muscle jumped in Halt’s cheek. “Milk?” he asked. “How absolutely barbaric. Honey—and tea—I can understand, but milk does nothing but dilute the taste.”

“Exactly,” Will agreed. “What other incidents have there been?” Privately, he wondered how many of those incidents had involved his mentor throwing people into ponds. 

“I believe Crowley has been targeted. No one knows who did it,” Halt said. “And there have been complaints about missing honeypots all morning.” 

“And Gilan is currently up a tree,” Will remarked. 

“Oh, really?” Halt raised an eyebrow. “I’ll have to go see about that. The only person who should be chasing my apprentices into trees is me.” He levelled a look at Will, who instantly thought of Greybeard Halt.

“I still don’t see why I had to spend the whole day up there,” Will said, grinning. 

Halt picked up his longbow and slung it over his shoulder. “At least I didn’t make you spend the night.” 

“Are you really going to use that?” he asked before he could stop himself. 

“No one will be injured. Permanently.”

Will opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. He caught a gleam of amusement in Halt’s eyes before he turned away to saddle Abelard. “This is shaping up to be the best fun I’ve had in years,” his mentor said cryptically.

Unsure of what Halt’s idea of fun was, he began to ask, “Where are you–” but Halt ducked into his tent, cutting him off. Will waited impatiently for him to come back out, his leg bouncing up and down. Lukewarm tea sloshed over the sides of his mug, and he absentmindedly wiped it on his cloak. 

Halt ducked out of the tent again with a burlap bag in his arms. Will recalled having seen it somewhere before, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember where. Burning with curiosity, he watched Halt tie the bag to his pommel, hoping that his mentor would reveal more information. 

“I’m going to go get Gilan out of the tree,” Halt said. “And then… Well, I won’t say much, but I suggest you get in on it. Especially with  _ that _ .” He pointed at the mug in Will’s hand. There was an odd look in his eyes that Will couldn’t interpret, but before he could ask, Halt swung himself astride Abelard and cantered away.

_ I suggest you get in on it.  _ Will sat down, pondering his mentor’s words. Was Halt actually advocating he prank someone? What had the world come to? His tea had long gone cold but he sipped at it anyway, making a face. __

Suddenly, a yell rent the air and he sat bolt upright, dropping his cup to the ground. Unpleasantly tepid tea spilled onto his boots. Tug, seeing his master’s agitation, whinnied softly, his ears pricked. 

Will cursed and righted the mug again with unsteady hands. His heart was racing, so he allowed himself a few deep breaths. “Stay, boy,” he told Tug, and ran off in the direction of the shout. 

The pony, watching his master’s retreating back, shook his mane.  _ Don’t get into too much trouble.  _

Will cursed as he backtracked and circled through the maze of tents. The Gathering Ground was haphazard as always, and he remained oriented only by the position of the sun. He rounded a corner, looking up at the sky, and ran headlong into another apprentice.

“Skinner!” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. Skinner was Harrison’s apprentice, and more importantly, a fellow tea drinker. As were most apprentices in the Corps, actually. “You gave me a heart attack!”

“Will! What d’you reckon that was?” the other apprentice asked.

“I’m not exactly–”

“You two!” Someone ran towards them, and Will automatically assumed a defensive stance before he realized it was Derrick, a fifth year who had just earned his silver. “Clarke’s freaking out—you must’ve heard that yell—what the hell is going on?”

“Clarke,” Will said. “Andross’s apprentice, right?”

“His tent’s that way!” Skinner said, and he took off, Will and Derrick on his heels. 

They skidded to a stop next to Andross’s campsite on the other side of the Ground. Clarke was pale under a thicket of bright red hair, and his green eyes were still alight with shock. 

“What’s… happening?” Will asked, attempting to slow his breathing. His stamina was still not where it used to be.

“Someone—someone dumped honey in my saddlebags, and now there are  _ ants _ .” Clarke shuddered. “ _ So many ants _ .”

Will nodded sympathetically despite the fact that he was actually quite fond of bugs. Once, at Castle Redmont, an exhibit at the fair had featured a beehive. Entranced, he had watched the insects work for ten minutes before Jenny dragged him away to play ring toss with her. “Do you need help?” he asked. 

“Stupid ants,” Clarke repeated nervously, stepping away from his bags.

“I’ll take them,” Derrick interjected. “A good dunk in the pond should get the job done.” Will, feeling a strange sense of déja vu, gave him directions to the duck pond, and he left. 

“What’s all this fuss about?” Harrison, walking by, noticed the shaken expression on Clarke’s face. 

“Honey,” Will answered. 

“Ants,” Clarke added, his face still pale. 

Harrison’s face went blank. “Ah,” he said. “That—that’s—” He struggled for words. 

“Was it you?” Will asked pointedly.

To his surprise, Harrison didn’t deny the accusation. “Sorry,” he said, a bemused expression on his face. “I thought those belonged to Andross. He puts honey in his coffee,” he added by way of explanation.

Clarke scowled, crossing his arms. Will was just wondering what he would do if Clarke were to suddenly tackle Harrison, when Harrison took a swig from his coffee-filled canteen and froze. 

His expression changed from confusion to realization to disgust within a single second, and he spat it out, coughing. “What the hell,” he spluttered. “What—” He was interrupted by a massive coughing fit. Will blinked, his mind racing. Had the coffee been contaminated? Poisoned, maybe? 

Harrison upended the entire canteen on the ground. Dark brown liquid flowed out of the opening, but it was oddly chunky and thick. It splattered when it hit the ground, and Will suddenly understood. Someone had mixed dirt into Harrison’s coffee.

“Excuse me,” Harrison spluttered, darting away towards Crowley’s tent and leaving a puddle of muddy coffee in his wake.

Clarke turned to Will, bewildered. “What on  _ earth _ is going on? Harrison put honey in my saddlebags, but it turns out there’s dirt in his coffee. I  _ hope  _ it was dirt,” he added emphatically.

“Well, something big is definitely happening,” said Skinner. “The argument… it’s gotten worse, hasn’t it?” 

“I…” Will’s voice trailed off. 

His senses widened. 

The normal sounds of the Gathering Ground had been disrupted. The daily rhythm and background noise he was accustomed to—friends catching up, horses cropping grass, the twang of bowstrings on the archery range—were no longer there. 

Instead, there was a sense of furtiveness and urgency about the entire Gathering that hadn’t been there the previous day. Will heard raised voices from the next tent, where Bartell and Lewin were gesticulating wildly at each other. A huddle of Rangers stood outside the Commandant Tent, engaged in serious discussion. Gilan was yelling at Leander, oak leaves strewn in his hair. 

_ I suggest you get in on it,  _ Halt had said. 

_ Not  _ one _ prank,  _ Will thought, suddenly realizing what his mentor had been getting at.  _ A prank  _ war. 


	3. Will Starts a Cult Too

“We don’t have much time, so we have to be quick.” Will stood on a tree stump near the archery range, addressing a crowd of fellow apprentices. Due to his role in the war against Morgarath, he was something of a celebrity amongst the younger members of the Ranger Corps. After last year’s Gathering, his habit of drinking tea—to his and Halt’s amusement—had become widespread among his peers. It was time to use that fact to spread a little more chaos. 

“Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the last twelve hours, you probably heard about the honey, no-honey incident last night,” he said. A ripple of assent ran through the apprentices. “Which, I have reason to believe—” Will paused here for dramatic effect—“has escalated into a prank war.”

“So what do you want us to do?” a first-year piped up.

Derrick grinned. “Prank them back. Spread chaos. Hit where they least expect it.” 

“Well, first, we need a group name,” said Clarke, who’d been doing reconnaissance. “Crowley’s group have already dubbed themselves the Beans, after, you know, coffee beans, and Gilan’s calling himself a sugarholic, and it’s starting to catch on.” 

Will sucked in a breath. Things were speeding up if the entire Corps was factionizing. “Okay,” he said. “Suggestions?” 

“The Leaves?” someone asked. “Like tea leaves?” 

“That’s dumb,” his friend said scornfully. “Our mentors are never going to let that drop.” Will had a vivid mental image of Halt calling him a tea leaf and shuddered. 

“What about one of those… what’s the word? Anachronisms?” asked Nick, a first-year from Hogarth fief. 

“I think the word you’re looking for is  _ acronym _ ,” said Skinner. “And the acronym has to be easily pronounceable when taken all together.” 

“What if the acronym is TEA?” Clarke asked. “Anyone have three words that make sense together starting with T, E, and A?”

Everyone shook their heads.

“I have one,” Will suggested. “What if we use Yes, Excellent Apprentices Enjoy Tea?” 

“Yea-et?” Skinner tipped his head. “I don’t know if I want to be identified with a group called yea-et,” he said sarcastically.

“Pronounced YEET,” Will explained. “We would pronounce it ‘yeet’.”

“Okay, wait a second,” objected Derrick. “The name  _ Leaves  _ is too stupid for us to use, but we can call ourselves YEET and no one is supposed to bat an eyelash?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clarke said, straight-faced. “YEET is a terrifying battlecry.”

“Strikes fear into the hearts of the most hardened warriors,” said Liam, a first year.

“Much terror,” an apprentice solemnly proclaimed.

“Very scary,” added another.

Will glanced at the crowd. The younger apprentices wore badly concealed smiles, while their older counterparts assumed deadpan faces like their mentors. He hastily adopted a neutral expression himself. “So, I take it, everyone  _ else  _ in favor?” he asked. Skinner raised an eyebrow, but Will pointedly ignored him. 

“Yes, sir!” the group chorused.  _ Oh, Gorlog _ . Will sighed. All he’d done was overthrow  _ one  _ evil warlord, and suddenly, everyone was calling him  _ sir.  _ What was this,  _ Battleschool? _

“Just Will, please,” he said. “Let’s do that one more time, with feeling.” 

A chorus of enthusiastic cheers rang through the archery range. “YEET!” 

Will grinned. “Much better.” 

Midday was the accustomed time where all the Rangers would trickle out from their tents to hear Crowley debrief them for the day. This involved sharing urgent news, assessment schedules, and hunting and sentry duties. 

Ordinarily, the crowd that gathered before the Commandant Tent was subdued, with the exception of a few whispering apprentices. But on that fateful Sevenday, things were certainly not ordinary in any way. Arguments seethed every two meters. Some Rangers looked like they were close to blows. Will stood quietly next to Halt, waiting for the next development to occur so he could react to it.

Earlier, he had decided that it was best not to reveal the identity of YEET members unless it was totally unavoidable. Therefore, stage one of their plan involved discreetly spreading as much paranoia and causing as much division as possible.

Although, Will thought, that was an easy enough task. Already, distinct cliques of Rangers were forming. Halt stood at the left-most end of the crowd, at the head of a group that included Andross and Gilan. Gil stood as far away from Will as was possible, inching away whenever he got close, muttering under his breath all the while. Will frequently caught the words “tea” and “sacrilegious”. 

Clear on the other side were Harrison and Berrigan, both senior Rangers. Harrison was Skinner’s mentor, but Berrigan had received his gold oakleaf a couple years ago. His glasses were askew on his face, and he was wringing his cloak dry with a glare in Halt’s direction. Will’s mentor blithely ignored the look. 

Leander, Merron, and Samdash stood in the middle, talking amongst themselves, occasionally casting suspicious glances at their colleagues. Will guessed that they were the infamous “milkers”, who got their dairy fix with their morning coffee. He shuddered at the thought. 

Crowley emerged solemnly from his tent. The conversation came to a reluctant halt as he gestured for silence. 

He cleared his throat, very obnoxiously, and began to speak. 

“It deeply saddens me to announce that the highest of high betrayals has blighted our organization today,” he said, bowing his head. “This was someone who I have considered a good friend—nay, a brother—for nearly two decades. Someone who all present looked up to as a colleague and mentor. Someone who has been instrumental over and over again in preserving our country. Well, that someone proved to be my undoing this very morning. In doing so, he has not only betrayed me, his Commandant, but he has wronged the Ranger Corps, his own brothers-at-arms, to the highest degree.” 

Will glanced at Halt. He was inscrutable as ever, with no sign of expression in his eyes. And yet… over four years of training with him, Will had become more attuned to his mentor’s expressions. His lips were pursed maybe a tad more than usual, and as he watched, Halt’s nose twitched, just the smallest movement. Since when did that happen? 

No, there was no doubt about it. Halt was wearing his Straight Face. 

Crowley peered sternly into the crowd, his eyes skipping from face to face, letting the tension build. Will had to admit that it was a good tactic. The Commandant knew how to work a crowd. 

Finally, after the silence had stretched almost uncomfortably long, he spoke. “Would Halt, our formerly distinguished Ranger to Redmont Fief, please step forward and admit to one of the highest crimes a Ranger can commit: turning against his Commandant, second only to high treason against the throne of Araluen.”

Halt’s features were ironclad. The very definition of deadpan, Will thought. It was as if the man himself were carved from stone. “No,” he said. 

There was another moment of dead silence. Even the birds in the background stopped chirping. It was so quiet Will could’ve heard Gilan approaching through the grass behind him. 

“Oh, for God’s sake, Halt!” Crowley suddenly cried out. “Why did you do it? Why did you pour honey in my boots?”

And, just like that, the tension dissipated like fog on a sunny day. Will, like three-quarters of the Corps, looked down at Crowley’s feet and tried to stifle a laugh. He was wearing a pair of homespun slippers, which he had unsuccessfully attempted to cover with his cloak.

The grizzled Ranger slowly shook his head. “I did no such thing. My honeypot was stolen this morning.”  _ Crowley has been targeted. No one knows who did it _ , Will remembered Halt saying. But–

His eyes widened. He looked over at Berrigan, who was still standing at the other end of the crowd. He met Will’s gaze and dropped one of his eyelids very slowly in a wink, and Will suddenly had a strong feeling he would be very helpful to their chaos-causing mission. 

“Well, whoever it was, I urge you to come forward now.” Crowley scanned the crowd again. No one spoke up. “Come on, whoever it is… there will be no consequences.” Will kept his eyes resolutely trained on a spot three feet to Crowley’s left, determined not to make eye contact. 

The Commandant sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Contact me before the end of the day, and I assure you no retribution will be sought,” he said, and a visible ripple of relief spread through the Rangers. Will released a pent-up breath, and Halt’s nose stopped twitching. 

“Moving on, moving on,” Crowley said before the noise level could rise again, “I would like to address the related discord sweeping through our Gathering today. Our enmity was, unfortunately, started by a group of anarchists who believe in adding honey to their coffee.” 

Will raised an eyebrow. How long had Crowley kept a straight face? Two minutes? A new record for sure, he thought. “The only true Rangers are those who believe in drinking their coffee black,” he was saying. “They of pure hearts as unspoilt as the coffee they drink.” 

“Bias! We have a Commandant that is biased towards a certain group of Rangers!” Gilan called out. 

Leander and Merron took up the cry. “Crowley is biased! Crowley is biased!”

“Silence in the Corps!”

“Crowley is biased! Crowley is biased!” 

Will subtly gestured behind his back for the members of YEET to join in as well.

_ “Crowley is biased! Crowley is biased!” _

“SHUT UP—IF COFFEE WAS MEANT TO BE SWEET, IT WOULD BE NATURALLY SWEET!” Crowley shouted over the crowd. Will blinked. He had never heard Crowley raise his voice like that before. 

“So if all Rangers were meant to ride horses,” Skinner muttered behind him, “why were we not born as centaurs?”

“Oh, good one,” Will said appreciatively. “You and Halt would get along.” 

He thought he heard a quiet snort from his mentor, but it was difficult to be sure.

“Honey-adders, sugarholics, whatever the hell you want to call yourselves, if you continue to blaspheme, well and good. But just know that you will never,  _ ever _ , have the support of myself. Or any other proper Ranger,” Crowley continued, his face turning an interesting shade of puce. He was really laying it on thick now. 

“ _ You’re  _ not a proper Ranger!” Andross protested. 

Harrison rounded on him. “Crowley’s the damn Commandant—you’re the one not seeing sense!”

Will watched, awestruck, as the clamor rose again and Ranger turned on Ranger. Meralon and Samdash drew closer and closer together with each taunt until their faces, both beet red, were inches apart. Nick and Liam, pretending to argue with one another, caught his eye and doubled over in silent laughter. 

“IN OUR DEFENSE.” Gilan’s voice cut suddenly through the din. He levelled a finger in Will’s direction. “THAT APPRENTICE DRINKS TEA.”

Will’s mouth fell open: now  _ this  _ was a turn of events he hadn’t expected.  _ Always plan for the worst,  _ Halt’s voice admonished in his head.  _ That way, when it happens, it may be unpleasant, but at least it won’t be a surprise.  _

Every voice died away as the full effect of what had just been said sank in. Then a steady murmur rose, becoming louder and louder with every second. Will felt his face flame as the entire Corps turned to look at him. 

Another wave of sound swept through the crowd as the Rangers flung protests and counter-accusations at one another. His assessors from the previous week shook their heads in despair, wondering how they could have possibly let him pass with perfect marks. A nearby flock of blackbirds took flight, startled by the commotion. 

“Leander puts milk in his coffee!” Skinner yelled over the crowd, and there was another flash-freeze, followed by a nuclear-grade explosion. Now the outrage was divided in two directions, and Will felt a surge of gratitude for the other apprentice. Leander’s milkers doubled their volume, glaring murderously at Will, but the sugarholics turned away from him and rounded on Leander instead. Crowley was steadily becoming the same color as his hair. He opened and closed his mouth several times, as if debating which offending group to lecture first. 

The only people standing apart from the conflict were Halt and Berrigan. Will glanced at his mentor’s face, wondered what was going through his mind. He half expected to see fake anger there, like the rest of the Corps, but there was only that same odd gleam in his eye that Will still couldn’t interpret. Berrigan’s expression was even more difficult to decipher. 

A sudden shout rose above the din. “They ought to be kicked out of the Corps! All of them!” Meralon of Norgate gestured to Leander’s group. “And him, too!” He levelled a finger at Will, who froze in place, his mouth falling open. If Meralon was kidding, it was hard to tell. “Effective immediately, Commandant–”

There was an inarticulate sound of rage from Halt’s throat, and before anyone could react—before Will could register the fact that his mentor could  _ produce _ such a noise—he leapt for Meralon, knocking him to the ground. Andross dived on top of the two men, only to be pulled away by Alun, who had thrown himself at Halt.

The ground itself suddenly seemed alive as the Rangers in their green-gray cloaks came to blows, tussling and rolling, kicking and punching. Will couldn’t believe his eyes. The other apprentices were frozen in similar positions of amazement, blown away by the potency of the Ranger Corps. Here, in front of them, dozens of the Kingdom’s best warriors traded hits, ducking and rolling, flitting and weaving through the crowd like the very shadows come to life. 

In Skandia, fights amongst the yard slaves had been common and widespread. Will had thought  _ those  _ were violent, but he had been sorely mistaken. He winced and ducked to the side as Samdash sprang upwards, launching Merron straight into the air off his shoulders. “GERONIMO!” he yelled, landing squarely on Harrison’s back, sending him to his knees.

Alun and Leander rushed past, lithe as panthers, moving so fast that their outlines blurred, matching each other blow for blow. Will could only watch, openmouthed, his mind unable to even process the sheer amount of concentrated ability it was seeing. 

_One riot, one Ranger,_ the old saying went. But what happened when there was a riot _made_ _up_ of Rangers?

Will didn’t stick around long enough to find out. 


	4. Crowley Says Fuck

The rendezvous point, as they had decided earlier, was by the archery range. Will was the first to ghost his way across the Gathering Ground, but the rest of YEET trickled in soon enough. 

“What’s the plan now?” Skinner asked, seemingly appearing from the trees ten meters away. “Our cover’s blown.” 

Will had given the subject a lot of thought as he moved unseen towards their rendezvous, turning their options over in his mind, debating the weaknesses and strengths of each course of action. “We’re in too deep to back out,” he said. “But since we’ve basically been exposed, we can hardly go undercover and cause more chaos.”

“Waiting it out seems to be the smartest option,” Derrick interjected.

“And let our mentors beat each other to a pulp?” Clarke asked. 

“I doubt that’ll happen,” he said. “They were holding back, couldn’t you tell? Like playfighting, but Ranger-level.”

_ All but one,  _ Will thought, remembering the look on Halt’s face as he’d sprang for Meralon. He felt something in his chest constrict as he realized his mentor had done that on  _ his  _ behalf, had done it because Meralon had insulted Will.

“Oh, good,” Skinner was saying. “So we just ride it out, see what happens?”

“Our mentors are probably going to turn on us soon enough,” Derrick said. “I say we make a decent base that we can retreat to, an easily defendable position.” 

Will suddenly recalled an event that had happened four years previously, something that had precluded his selection as an apprentice Ranger. There had been a close shave with a patrolling sergeant, he remembered, and he had climbed the wall of Castle Redmont to escape notice. And earlier still, he had climbed the tree in the Ward the night before Choosing Day, perched on a branch ten meters above the ground, and Alyss had been unable to find him. 

_ Strange how people never seem to look up.  _

“The trees,” Will said. “We’ll scout them out from the trees.”

Ironically, the tree that Will chose was a fig tree, overlooking the eastern edge of the Gathering Ground. He had climbed a fig tree the day he had gotten  _ into  _ the Corps; now, with the Rangers in utter disarray, he was climbing one again.

He navigated its waving branches with special care, aware that a hasty movement could catch the attention of any one of the fifty Rangers below. He hoped the others were doing the same, then snorted quietly to himself. Of course they were. Any first-year apprentice would know to do that.

From his perch ten meters above the forest floor, he could see the entire Gathering, from the Commandant Tent in the very center to the archery range on the western border. The brawl that had erupted earlier had broken up, but Will wasn’t sure it was over yet. He scanned the rows of tents, watching for movement in his peripheral vision. 

“What’s happening?” hissed Clarke, unable to see from his concealed position behind the trunk. 

“There’s something behind the tables over there. See it?” Derrick said from the next tree over. 

Will spotted a flash of quick-moving green and gray. Moments later, a brown blur sailed through the air and disappeared behind another table, followed by an outraged shout.

“It’s the sugarholics,” Skinner said. “They’re fighting… who is that?”

Even from this distance, Will caught the distinctive flash of red hair. “Halt’s sugarholics versus Crowley and the Beans,” he reported. “I think they’re besieging each other for use of the tables.”

“What about the third group?” Clarke asked. “Leander’s milk-milks, or whatever the hell they call themselves?”

“In hiding, if they’re smart,” said Skinner. 

“No way. Samdash would want to be in the thick of it,” Derrick said. Will agreed; Samdash was the most impulsive of the Corps, a firebrand like Crowley with a worse attitude.

“The question is,” Derrick continued, “where is he? We can’t have them sneaking up on us, because then we’d really be in trouble.” 

Will swore. The trees were defensible, but there was nowhere to retreat if they were overrun. He made a quick decision. “Nick, Liam, Skinner,” he said. “I’m putting you on watch for Leander and his allies. Don’t let anything surprise us. I’m going down there to look for them.” 

“I’m coming with you,” Clarke responded instantly.

Will’s first instinct was to protest, but then he thought better of it. Clarke was the best apprentice at hand-to-hand fighting, mainly because he was already taller than the average Ranger and twice as broad. He was competent at unseen movement for a Ranger—and by anyone else’s standards, competent was very good.

Basically, he wasn’t Horace. A smile tugged at Will’s mouth as he remembered his boyfriend and wondered how life was going for him as a knight in the Royal Guard. 

“After you, then,” he said, dragging himself out of the reverie. “Derrick, if we get in trouble, come after us.”

Derrick grinned. “You can count on it.”

Clarke’s boot caught on a twig as he dropped to the ground. It snapped, and the sound seemed to echo through the clearing like a thunderclap. Will froze, his hands clinging to the branch for dear life, his left foot dangling in midair and his right scraping for purchase against the trunk. 

Above him, Derrick made the  _ All Clear  _ hand signal; Will let out a pent-up breath and continued the descent.  _ Sorry,  _ Clarke mouthed as he dropped to the forest floor. Will shrugged, letting him know there were no hard feelings. 

The two ghosted through the rows of campsites. There was no trace of Rangers anywhere, but there were plenty of Ranger horses, happily cropping grass in the absence of their masters. They looked up as Will and Clarke passed, ears pricked in curiosity. It was amazing how they were all looking at him the same way, Will thought. The liquid eyes seemed to ask,  _ Now, what kind of silly thing are you up to now _ ? He wondered suddenly if other Ranger horses could read him as well as Tug did. 

He was so preoccupied by the thought that he barely saw Clarke’s closed fist: the Ranger signal for  _ Stop.  _ Will nearly walked right into him. 

“What?” he asked. In response, Clarke pointed to a burlap sack of arrows propped against a nearby tent. Will recognized it as the bag that held the arrows used for apprentice assessments. They were rubber-tipped and wouldn’t do any permanent damage, but he knew from experience that they left nasty bruises. 

His first thought was that Halt had gotten them to use against the Beans, but his mentor wouldn’t have left the whole sack lying around. Then he noticed a series of odd indentations in the ground and bent down to study them more carefully. They were side by side with a series of footprints, and his first thought was that the owner had been using a cane. Then Will noticed that all the footprints had been made with the same foot, which meant their owner only  _ had  _ one foot.  _ Berrigan.  _

Will recalled his inscrutable expression and shook his head in amazement. Whose side, exactly, was that man on? 

“Are you thinking the same thing I’m thinking?” Clarke asked, scanning the area. It wouldn’t do to walk into a trap, he thought. 

“I think you are,” Will said. “You take the arrows back and I keep scouting?” 

“Sure thing.” Clarke shouldered the bag. “Don’t get caught.” 

“I’ll do my best.” 

And with that, Will continued farther into the Gathering Ground. 

At the first sign of voices, he froze in place, balancing precariously on the balls of his feet.

“...assessments in an hour,” said Leander’s voice. It was coming from a nearby tent. Will estimated he was about ten meters away. “Are those still happening?” 

“I would assume so,” Samdash said. “Unless things really are that bad.” 

Nearby, the sugarholics and the Beans were still going at it. Will heard a muffled curse and shrank as far as he could into the tiny shadow provided by the afternoon sun. 

There was silence from inside the tent as well. Then, “Are they still fighting?”

“Yeah, it’s been—what was that?” The voices cut off. “I thought I heard someone coming.” 

Will fought every instinct in him to keep from looking up in surprise. Only absolute stillness could save him now.  _ Trust the cloak.  _

Suddenly, a group of men seemed to materialize from thin air less than twenty meters away. Will shouted in surprise and threw himself to the side just in time to avoid Crowley’s men, who charged Leander’s tent. 

Leander burst from the tent as Crowley himself appeared on the scene, holding a pail in his arms. He tossed its contents over Leander, soaking him from head to toe, followed by the pail itself. 

“Why, you—” Leander dodged it and flung himself at Crowley, trying to smother him in a sopping wet hug. The Ranger Commandant twisted away, but not fast enough to evade Leander’s cloak, which caught him full in the face. 

“Gah!” Crowley’s eyes bugged. Will caught a whiff of the liquid at the same time and gagged.  _ Spoiled milk.  _

Not one member of the Milkers escaped the barrage. There was so much of it that, in some places, the dirt turned a muddy beige color. Will wondered where Crowley had found all the milk. He had a sudden mental image of the Beans raiding a creamery and making off with the dairy supplies.

Halt and Gilan chose that moment to arrive on the scene. They were a two-person battering ram, Gilan wielding a branch like a sword and driving the other Rangers back. Will’s eyes met Halt’s for a split second, and surprise flitted across his mentor’s face. 

Crowley took advantage of his distraction and swept Halt’s legs out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground. Without thinking, Will leapt forward and seized the nearest object he could—a clay pot—and upended the contents over Crowley’s head. 

Sticky honey drizzled out of the pot and landed with an audible  _ splat  _ on Crowley’s face. 

All movement sputtered to a stop as all Rangers in the near vicinity turned and stared at Will, who was still holding the honeypot with numb fingers. 

“Oh, well done,” Gilan said into the silence, patting Will on the shoulder. Will took an involuntary step back, shocked by what he had just done. The honeypot slipped from his grasp and shattered on the ground with a too-loud  _ crash. _

The noise broke the spell. With a cry of outrage, Alun surged forward. Gilan moved to meet him, and the rest of the Beans attacked with renewed vigor. Before he could retreat, Will was caught in the tide of veteran Rangers. 

Each of his senses felt as sharp as a knife’s edge, letting him block attacks before he even registered they were there. He ducked and twisted away, trying to slip through the crowd. The world was a whirl of gray and green, cloaks and bodies as insubstantial as shadows. It was the most disorienting thing he’d ever seen. 

Aches and bruises blossomed down his hands and forearms, which were taking too many hits. They were already beginning to stiffen, and his shoulders screamed out in protest every time he raised his arms, and yet he sensed that the Rangers were still holding back with every blow. Will had never fought an opponent of this caliber in his life, not even the Temujai Kaijin. He rolled desperately to the side, trying to escape the jabs that rained down on his shoulders.

Then a battlecry pierced the din, a hair-raising, blood-chilling yell that stopped the fighting cold: “YEET!” Apprentices burst from between the tents, strikers in hand. Rubber arrows flew, fired by the rear reserve of YEET led by Derrick. 

Will stayed on the ground, wary of the flying arrows, but a wide grin split his face.“Nice of you to show up!”

“One riot, fifty Rangers,” Skinner said, returning the grin. 

Their assailants fell back but pushed again almost immediately, several recognizing their apprentices in the fray. A harried first-year instantly retreated, his mentor in hot pursuit, shaking his fist and yelling about “kids these days”. Will winced, feeling a sudden twist of empathy in his chest for the kid.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Derrick draw breath to give the order to shoot again—and then suddenly, Halt let out a piercing whistle that made his ears ring. 

Bright tongues of fire split the sky as flaming arrows arced downwards towards Leander’s tent. Will pinched himself as they struck the canvas and stuck there, wondering if he was dreaming. Surely no one would be crazy enough to use real fire arrows in a prank war?

For a second, nothing happened. 

Then the waterproof oils in the cloth flared and caught, and the entire tent went up with a  _ whoosh  _ of flame and sparks. Mentors and apprentices alike froze mid-blow, turning towards the conflagration. Crowley and Gilan, entangled in some sort of headlock, staggered closer to the fire before Crowley yelped and threw his weight down, away from the flames. 

His cloak trailed behind him, too close to the blaze. Will opened his mouth to shout a warning, but too late: Crowley yelped again, higher in pitch this time, as the fabric caught flame. He unclasped it and stamped on it furiously. Will caught Skinner’s eye as they both stifled a laugh at the sight of their Commandant frantically trying to put out his cloak. 

“Let me help you with that!” Samdash suddenly appeared out of the chaos, grinning maniacally, and emptied a pail of milk over Crowley’s head. Merron caught on to the idea and dashed forward with another pail, dumping it in his face.

Crowley’s mouth hung open, his hair and clothes utterly soaked, as he reached up with one hand and wiped the old milk from his face. 

“I’m debating if committing a double homicide is going to be worth all the  _ fucking  _ paperwork,” he said slowly. “Because–”

And Derrick, an angelic smile pasted to his face, chose that very moment to seize the last pail of milk and throw it over the Corps Commandant. 

Will heard a strange sound from behind him, an alien sound that was also oddly familiar—

Halt was laughing. Deep, belly-shaking, doubling-over laughing. It was infectious, and a broad smile broke out over Will’s face. Crowley mopped his face again, spluttering, but after a split second, he started laughing too.

“I didn’t know Halt was capable of that,” Gilan whispered to Will, and they made eye contact and doubled over in a fit of hysteria.

“It’s not every day I get to see Crowley set on fire,” Halt said, dabbing at his eyes. 

“You know, this is all very touching, but the Gathering Ground is currently  _ also  _ on fire,” Clarke noted. Halt shot him a withering glance, but Clarke remained resolutely unwithered. “It’s starting to spread,” he said. “And we’re all out of milk.”

“Bucket chain!” Harrison yelled. “Fetch water buckets from campsites! Give them to Merron and Alun!”

Will, the ghost of a smile still on his face, dashed to the nearest campsite and seized the pail of water next to the tent. It splashed over the edges as he ran back, soaking the sleeves of his cloak. He handed it off to Lewin, who turned and flung the water over the tent. The flames quelled for a second, then flared up again. He ran off for another bucket and gave it to Alun. 

“Sorry for splitting your lip earlier,” Will said, grinning. 

“It’s fine.” Alun tossed the water onto the tent and gave the bucket back to Will, raising an eyebrow as he did. “As long as you don’t do it again.” 

Slowly, the blaze burned itself to embers and ashes, and gray clouds obscured the sun as it began to rain. “That was close,” Halt said, coming up to stand next to Will.

“Brave words from the man who started the fire,” Crowley said. His red hair was dark with soot, and there was a smudge of it on his nose. His cloak, trailing listlessly behind him, had been burned to tatters. He looked at it ruefully. “That was my favorite cloak,” he said. 

Crowley probably would have said the same thing no matter which cloak had been burned, but Will tactfully refrained from pointing that out. 

“The fire did what it was supposed to,” Halt said shortly. 

“And that was?”

“Re-unify the Corps. Think about it,” he said, holding up a hand to forestall Crowley. “How long would we have rioted without a common goal to bring us back together? How far would this petty argument have gone?”

Crowley’s mouth opened, then closed again. “You—you still owe me for the tent,” he spluttered.

“Oh, in that case,” Halt said easily, “it was all Berrigan’s idea.” 

Will caught Berrigan’s eye through the crowd, and he winked, very slowly.  _ It was _ .

Utter silence descended on the Gathering Ground as the Rangers broke camp, each heading for their respective fiefs. There were overly polite farewells and handshakes as the individual members of the Corps departed, not to see their comrades again until the following year. 

Which, in light of recent events, wouldn’t be the worst thing. Crowley had ordered that the Rangers collectively purge the day’s events from their memories, and that if “anyone ever,  _ ever,  _ mentions it again, I’ll set their cloaks on fire.” 

Halt and Will maintained a companionable silence as they packed their belongings and got ready to leave. Will glanced at his northseeker and set a course for Redmont, waving a goodbye to Derrick, newly appointed Ranger to Martinsyde fief.

“That way,” he said, turning Tug to the west. They would head in that direction until they reached the Salmon River, and then they would swing north. He turned in his saddle, watching the Gathering Ground recede into the distance. A lazy spiral of smoke still curled over the clearing, dark against the red sunset. 

The companionable silence lasted twenty minutes until, rather surprisingly, Halt broke it. “So, when do you think the follow-up Gathering will be?” he asked over the drumming of their horses’ hooves. 

“What?” Will frowned, taken aback. “We’re going to another Gathering this year?” 

“No.” His mentor shook his head. “ _ You’re  _ going to another Gathering this year. You need to finish your fourth-year assessments.” 

Will groaned, then brightened suddenly, thinking about the members of YEET. He liked the idea of seeing the rest of the apprentices again before they all graduated and went their separate ways.

“Oh, and, Will?” Halt raised an eyebrow. 

“Yes, Halt?” 

“If you ever bring up that accursed organization again, I’ll throw  _ you  _ into a duck pond.” He touched his heels to Abelard’s side, sending him flying ahead. “Along with a cartload of tea leaves.” 

“You wouldn’t.”

“Of course I would,” Halt said immediately. 

But as Will urged Tug alongside him, he thought he caught the barest hint of a smile on his mentor’s face. 


End file.
